


What Happened After

by fandomlover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Feels, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlover/pseuds/fandomlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story occurs after Sherlock jumps off the building. It shows what John did between the death  and the funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happened After

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first work actually published and shown to actual people, so I would love comments. :)  
> I don't own the characters, I only own the plot line. There are a few quotes from the show though. Oh, and a picture I found on Pinterest that I'll post at the end.

John's POV

 Day 1 was the hardest.

 People expect you to wake up, cry a little, and get on with your life. Well, that's not how it happens. Not for me anyway.

 I woke up thinking the day before was a dream. A terrible dream, and one I was hoping wasn't true. So, I got up to have my daily morning tea with Sherlock and waled to the kitchen. My mind registered the quietness of the room, but that was normal. Sherlock was often quiet in the mornings as he deduced things.

 I reached into the cupboard and grabbed two mugs. "Sherlock, do you want some tea?" I asked, and I heard nothing. Usually Sherlock makes some noise to say yes or no, but it was completely quiet. I turned around and my mind registered the empty room, where there was nobody but the skull, and the memories washed over me. I dropped the mugs and collapsed, putting my face in my hands to hide the tears from HIS chair. I cried and cried, sitting there with the shards of glass around me.

 Apparently Mrs. Hudson heard the noise, because I heard her come in and ask if I was alright. I didn't answer and let the tears fall over my hands onto the floor. I registered her arms around me, hugging me, and I shrugged her off. I didn't want any sympathy, I just wanted Sherlock.

 Mrs. Hudson left, and must have called Lestrade, because an hour later he came into the room. "John, get up," he said, and I stayed on the floor with the shards still around me. I had long exhausted my tears, and I was now on my knees with my hands still covering my face. "John, get up. You know he wouldn't want you hurt, and you are bleeding from your legs," he said, and I faintly registered the slight pain coming from my legs and the blood staining my pants. I slowly crawled over to Sherlock's chair, getting more cuts, and pulled myself into it. Lestrade looked at me.

 "I'll get the first aid kit," he said, and I curled into a ball in his chair. I kept my hands close to my chest though to keep the blood from my face. Lestrade came back with the first aid kit and a wet towel.

 "Look at you," he said. "Blood on your hands, your legs, your face red and puffy. And all before 9 am. You need to pull yourself together."

 I just stared at him, looking into his face. I didn't make any sign that I heard him, I just stared. He was being so cold, just like HIS body. All I could do was stare, because if I tried to speak, I'm pretty sure I would scream.

 "I've got to go back to work, but Mycroft is coming later. Call me if you need me," Lestrade said after he wiped off my face and tended to my cuts. He stoid up and put away the dirty towel and the first aid kit and walked out the door. After I heard him leave, I closed my eyes and drowned myself in the memories screaming in my head.

 The first thing that came up was Sherlock's face. Just his face, looking at me. Then it contorted and became the broken face I saw on the sidewalk. My eyes snapped open and I heard someone screaming.

  "Shh, shh," I heard someone saying, and I realized that I was the one screaming. Someone was also patting my back, and I looked up to see Mycroft in front of me. Who knew Sherlock's brother could be such a calming presence?

"Shh, John, it's ok. I know. I am his brother you know, even if I don't act like it sometimes," he was saying, and I finally got back to a small whimper. I looked into the other Holmes's face, and I could see that Mycroft saw exactly what I was going through. I could see he also cared about his brother too, according to the red in his eyes and his disheveled look.

 "How long have you been here?" I managed to ask Mycroft, and he looked up to see the numbers on the clock.

"30 minutes after Lestrade left, so about an hour. I think you've been asleep for an hour and a half. You looked like you were having a bad dream," he responded, and I grimaced. I didn't want to remember that bloodied face looking at me.

"Why don't we get you something to eat?" Mycroft asked, and I allowed him to help me up in a standing position. I looked down and noticed I was still in the clothes that I fell asleep in last night. Mycroft dragged me to the table and made me sit down in a chair, right beside where I realized Sherlock was gone this morning. Mrs. Hudson must have cleaned up the shards from the two mugs, because they weren't there.

I collapsed in the chair, and Mycroft rooted through our kitchen until he found things to make a sandwich. He set a plate with a ham sandwich in fron tof me and pointed at it, then at me. "Eat John. You need your energy," he said, and I automatically picked up the sandwich and took a nibble. I set it back down and pushed it away from me.

"Not hungry. I don't want to eat," I said, and I could see the sympathy well up in Mycroft's face. I glared at him. "I don't want your sympathy, I want Sherlock!" I yelled and abruptly stood, pushing myself away from the table. I stomped toward a room and closed the door, noticing too late whose it was. Sherlock's room.

I collapsed on the floor again and just stared. How could everything look so normal in here, like he was just going to come back and tell me the game was on in that deep voice of his. It made me angry that even though everything had changed, his room hadn't, and it was still here waiting for him in its organized mess. I stood up and ripped the sheets off the bed. They fell onto the floor and I started screaming again, messing the room up more and more until the only thing not overturned was the picture in my hands.

The picture was of us when we first started solving crimes together. Even though we had only been living in the same flat for two months, we looked like we were best friends, partners. We were in front of 221B, and Sherlock was scowling about something offscreen, most likely about his picture being taken. I was looking up at him with a huge smile on my face, and I could hear him now.

"I don't like my picture being taken John," he had said, and I had laughed.

"It will be good for you. You can look back at this and remember solving the case of the missing bear and how childish we were," I had said back. Sherlock had scoffed.

"Why would I need a picture to remember? I have you to remind me everyday," he had retorted back, and I remember it made me so happy. We got it developed and I had given him a copy. I thought he might have thrown it away, but he had saved it and put it next to his bed, the place reserved for very important things.

I couldn't handle it anymore. I slumped against the door, still on the floor, and started crying again, the picture by my side on the floor. He thought he would be around forever, but Moriarty got the better of him.

"He loved you, you know," I heard Mycroft say on the other side of the door. It sounded like he was sitting right beside it. I lifted my head to be able to listen a little better.

He really did. He killed himself so you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade could live. You people were what he believed to be his only family, and you were the only one he really loved. People kept calling him a freak or asking him for favors or watching over him, but you came in and you called him brilliant. You let him be himself and argued his side, that he wasn't sick, wasn't a freak, he was brilliant, a genius, and a wonderful person to be around," he said, and I could feel the tears streaming down my face.

"I'll leave you alone now," Mycroft added, and I heard him stand up and start walking away. I let him and sat by the door until the sun went down. By Sherlock's clock on the floor, it was about two in the morning when I finally walked out into the living room. Nobody was in the room, and instead of crying, it just made me and I grabbed my phone and called the number that I hadn't needed in a while.

"Ellie? Yeah, I need you again."

 ***

The next hardest day was the funeral.

We gathered there next to his gravestone, Sherlock's closest family and friends. Me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft.

One by one they all left. Mrs. Hudson couldn't take seeing Sherlock's grave anymore, so she went home. Lestrade got a call about a dead body, so he had to go to work. That left me and Mycroft.

"Did he really love me?" I asked him, still looking at the gravestone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mycroft nod his head. "He really did,' he answered.

This information just made me angrier. "Then he shouldn't have jumped off that building a week ago! I don't care if I had gotten shot, I would have lived," I said, shooting a glance at Mycroft. His face was twisted, and I could see he shared my pain.

"Come see me later John," he said. "I'm here for you at anytime."

 Mycroft left afterwards, leaving mr alone at the grave sight. I knew I would have to soon be going, but it seemed too final. I knew I had to tell him one more thing.

 "You told me once that you weren't a hero... um... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this. You were the best man and human... human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's... uh. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just... stop it. Stop this!" I said, and got choked up. I turned away from the gravestone and walked to the road, hailing a taxi.

 "Where to?" the driver asked, and my bresthe hitched. His voice sounded so much like... No. He's dead, in the ground.

 "221 Baker Street please," I managed to choke out, and we started driving. I noticed the mist forming on the window, and on impulse I started writing.

 "Sherlock is not a fake," I wrote, and pinched between my eyes to stop the tears. It didn't work.                                         

**Author's Note:**

> http://www.pinterest.com/pin/155233518380463478/
> 
> There's the link. I'm sorry, but I don't know the original owner, but if you do, then I would appreciate it if you told me. :)


End file.
